


His Peccadilloes

by MonsterTesk



Series: Apparel [8]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dirty Talk, M/M, Marking, Masturbation, Sexting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2018-02-07 16:58:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1906827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonsterTesk/pseuds/MonsterTesk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's like an autograph book he carries on him at all times. The pages of which are signed by the same person over and over again only for them to fade. They are points of pride to him; ephemeral and richly colored. The same signature left one hundred different ways like a teen with their first crush, scratching out the last name of their beloved, repeated into insanity on the pages of their schoolbooks. Every single one is cherished then lamented when it's gone. It's an autograph book signed with invisible ink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Peccadilloes

**Author's Note:**

> Feeling a little meh about this but whatevs. It may be disjointed and not well put together butt fuck it! Have it anyway.

[Hey angel, you home?]

Chris smiles at his phone and taps out a quick response as he kicks off his shoes.

[Yes. I just got in.]

He sets his shoes by the dresser and pulls off his socks while he waits for a response. Stiles is in Sacramento for the next few days, finishing finals and packing his things up for the summer.

[You alone?]

Chris contemplates a lie of sorts. Technically, he is the only one in the room but he isn’t the only one in the house. Erica and Scott are both staying over, sleeping in Allison’s bed for the simple fact that they miss her. Finals week is hard on the two since Allison all but disappears under piles of paper and books until it’s done.

[Scott and Erica are staying over.]

In the time it takes Stiles to respond, Chris removes his watch, sets it on his bedside table, and shucks his shirt.

[That’s too bad. I was gonna call you.]

Chris puts his shirt in the hamper then stands next to it as he responds.

[You still can.]

He removes his jeans, laying them over the top of the hamper while he waits to hear his phone play whatever odd song Stiles has set it to.

[I can but they’d hear me.]

Chris frowns.

[That is the point of a phone call. Why wouldn’t you want to be heard?]

Instead of a text, Chris receives a picture. Stiles’ torso stretched out, belly bare and trousers just barely unbuttoned to show off the underwear that Chris forgot the last time he stayed over.

Chris sits down on the bed, staring at the picture. It shouldn’t seem as indecent as it does but Chris lives in a world of werewolves and banshees where everything is possible.

[I was hoping for a walkthrough.]

[It looks like that’s not an option. You could always turn to texts for further instruction. You know… like the ones you should be studying.]

Chris sets his phone down on the nightstand and crawls under the covers. The bed feels over-sized and cold without a certain sprawling body taking up the majority of it. He’s used to it at this point but that doesn’t necessarily make it his preference. His phone beeps, screen lighting up from the nightstand. Chris picks it up.

[Done studying for the night. Can’t sleep.]

[Why not?]

He burrows into the covers as much as he can, not as warm as he would be if Stiles were next to him.

[Can’t stop thinking about the taste of your skin.]

Chris’ wrist throbs at the memory of Stiles’ mouth on him. He feels a little warmer already. He gets another text before he can respond.

[How does it look?]

He’s very tempted to be difficult, to be purposely obtuse and make Stiles spell it out as a form of petty revenge. Instead he holds his phone up, lines up the camera, and takes a picture of what Stiles wants to see.

[Damn. That’s pretty dark. How does it feel?]

Chris shifts, pushing himself across the bed until he’s on Stiles’ side. If he thinks real hard he can convince himself he can still smell Stiles on the sheets.

[A little sore.]

[I’m sorry I’m not there to kiss it better.]

Chris presses his free hand flat on his stomach, remembering the last time Stiles kissed it better vividly.

[Maybe another time.]

Chris knows where this is going. He knows that Stiles is bored and horny and that he’s texting Chris to liven up his night. Chris doesn’t mind in the least.

[Or you could do it for me.]

[What?]

[Kiss it for me. Put your mouth on my mark and kiss it.]

Chris’ eyebrows rise. He doesn’t deny the heat on his cheeks at the idea or the prospect of Stiles wanting him to do this. Stiles has always had his unusual peccadilloes. He does as Stiles asks, raising his wrist to his mouth and presses his lips to the discolored skin. He doesn’t expect much out of it. He’s done a lot of odd things at the behest of Stiles and this won’t even make any top five.

There’s an odd tugging from his bellybutton down to his groin when his lips make contact that he did not anticipate. Chris pulls his wrist away and stares at it like it’ll confess its misdeeds. His phone vibrates.

[How was it?]

Chris pauses, unsure how to answer.

[Peculiar.]

He doesn’t need to be in the room with Stiles to know he’ll laugh when he reads Chris’ reply. He can see it now; Stiles spread out on his bed, shirt tossed onto the floor, trousers undone but otherwise untouched, the toes of his bare feet curling and uncurling without thought.

[Good. I left you a present in my bed table.]

Chris sits up and opens the drawer of Stiles’ side table. Inside lays a flesh colored dong. One of the kind that have far more detail than anything one would want to shove up their ass would need.

[Stiles, you know I don’t like toys.]

[Doesn’t it look familiar, though? Like you’ve seen it before.]

Chris huffs, sitting back down, a little disappointed.

[It looks like a dildo.]

Chris gets a picture in response again. This one Stiles has pulled his trousers down, his cock laying mostly hard against his stomach. That’s when Chris gets it. Jesus. He looks at the toy again and, yes, it does look familiar. Like something he’s seen many mornings, afternoons, and nights up close and personal.

[You should try it out, see if it compares.]

Chris bites his tongue as he considers this. He’s not really one for self-pleasuring. Really the only time he does it is when Stiles calls late at night and asks him to in that hedonistically dirty voice he gets when it’s been longer than he would like.

[We could compare notes.]

There’s a picture accompanied with the text of a twin to the toy in the drawer except this one is laid out on Stiles’ bed next to his hip with a bottle of lube. Chris’ brain shuts down at that, overcome by the concept and the reality of it.

Stiles with his legs spread, hand moving as he fucks himself on his own dick. The way his cheeks would redden and how his lip would catch between his teeth. Would he say his own name or would he say something else? Would he imagine himself fucking himself or would he picture Chris lying in bed thinking about Stiles while he fucked himself on a carbon copy of Stiles’ dick? Is that what Stiles wants? To watch Chris fuck this toy? Does he want to watch Chris squirm and shake and plead for Stiles to climb into bed and take him? Does he want Chris to moan his name and spread his legs, moving his hand faster and faster until he comes thinking about Stiles above him, in him, behind him, hard and panting as he hisses out a slew of perverted thoughts?

[Jesus, Stiles.]

[I knew you’d like that.]

Chris can practically see Stiles’ smug grin. It should irritate him but he’s too busy pulling off his underwear and getting the lube and toy from the drawer.

[I do.]

Chris runs his hand over his cock, working himself until he’s completely hard. It doesn’t take long imagining Stiles doing the same.

[Do me a favor, angel?]

[What?]

[Record it for me? Just the audio. I want to listen to you getting off on my dick the next time I touch myself.]

Chris bites his lip, pushing a finger inside of himself as he imagines this; imagines Stiles listening to Chris as he slides his own dick into his ass, eyes closed, mouth open.

[fuck babe]

He turns on the voice recording app and lets it run. Stiles doesn’t text him again but that’s fine with Chris. He’ll text Stiles when he’s done. He sets the phone down next to his head and closes his eyes. It doesn’t take much to get into it, get into the fantasy that Stiles is in the room, watching, waiting. Chris pumps lube onto his fingers and gets to work. He doesn’t take as long as he should preparing himself but he’s fine with being impatient, there’s nothing wrong with that.

When he pushes the toy inside it feels odd, cold, but familiar all the same. He moves it a little to get used to the sensation. It’s both harder and feels somehow more pliant than Stiles would. He licks his lips and thinks about that as he increases the speed at which he moves the toy.

He thinks about how it feels to lower himself onto Stiles’ cock. He thinks about the little thrusts Stiles would use if Chris stayed seated on him too long without moving. He thinks about the way Stiles’ fingers would trail over Chris thighs. He thinks about Stiles’ hand on Chris’ cock and the way he’d repeat Chris’ name over and over again like he can’t remember any other words. He thinks about the time Stiles fucked him on the dining room table, how every thrust of his hips was smooth and strong and perfect. He thinks about how his hands had gripped the table edge as Stiles’ mouth had closed down around an expanse of flesh on Chris’ chest and sucked until Chris came, cock still moving inside of him.

He thinks about Stiles’ grip tight on his thighs as he holds Chris’ legs apart and laps at his balls. He thinks about Stiles’ mouth kissing across Chris’ shoulders from behind, cock hard and insistent against Chris.

He thinks of all this, of Stiles, and pants and groans, moving the toy quicker and quicker inside of him. He thinks about Stiles listening to this and gets louder until he remembers that Erica and Scott are here and that both of them are, in fact, werewolves. He presses his wrist to his mouth, so close to coming, to keep himself as quiet as possible.

A spark of pain from his wrist. Chris remembers the love-mark there with a small noise, instinctively biting down over the bruised skin to keep himself quiet as he comes across his stomach, body shaking.

He lays there for a few moments, hot and sweaty, with his own come on his skin and laments it’s not Stiles’.

“I love you, baby,” Chris says half-breathless, before turning off the recording app. He sends it to Stiles’ phone then pulls the toy out, wincing. His ass hurts in a good way, wet and used. It was good but definitely not as good as the real thing.

His phone vibrates a few moments later when Chris is putting the toy on the bedside table to take care of tomorrow.

[Definitely not as good as yours.]

[Much prefer the real thing. Get some sleep; you’ve got tests in the morning.]

[When I get home I’m so sucking you off while I fuck you with this.]

If Chris hadn’t come already that would most definitely be enough incentive to do so.

[Go to bed, Mister Stilinski.]

[How can I when you’re not here, Mister Argent?]

Chris smiles and shakes his head, pulling the blankets up over his shoulders as he curls up on his side. Absently, he tugs Stiles’ pillow in against his chest and rests his head on where it overlaps with his own.

[Close your eyes and lay still.]

There’s no response for a minute or so. Chris settles in farther, turning around so Stiles’ pillow is against his back.

[Should I think of England too?]

Chris laughs softly, shaking his head.

[If it makes you sleepy.]

[It doesn’t but that amazing orgasm I had thinking about you fucking yourself with my dick sure did make me feel relaxed.]

A pause. Then another text.

[Did you use the arm with your marked wrist to shove my cock inside you?]

Jesus, Stiles just did not stop.

[No. Was using it to muffle the sounds I was making.]

[Next time I touch myself I’m gonna think of that.]

Chris yawns.

[You do that, babe. Goodnight.]

[Night, angel. I love you.]

[Love you too.]

Chris closes his eyes and presses the fingers of one hand into the wrist attached to the other. He smiles and drifts off to sleep thinking about the incredible man he’s given his life to.

He doesn’t know when Stiles figured it out. Maybe it was the first time when he’d spread his lips over Chris’ shoulder and sucked and bit until his skin was red. Or maybe it was the second time when Chris had dug his nails into his back, dragging them down as Stiles marked his chest. What Chris does know is that this little thing, this desire, is known.

With each passing mark, he grows ever more bold. One on Chris’ stomach, sucked there between sharp teeth. One on his hip left by those less than delicate teeth. One on his thigh that Stiles would press his fingers into whenever he could. One on the tip of his shoulder from a hot day spent on the couch. The latest of which is small but insistent.

One compact, oval shaped bruise kissed into the soft inside of his wrist. It’s bright red and deep. He can see it starting to mottle already, turning an angry speckled Bing Cherry color. It would be near impossible to hide if it wasn’t deliberately left on the wrist he normally wears his watch on.

As it is, he can feel the press of the leather band into the bruise all day long, chaffing at the sensitized skin to the point of near-distraction. It’s a low level reminder of his state of being. He belongs.

And with each mark he is reminded of this.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I might delete this. I haven't decided so if at any point you go to like reread this or something, I don't know, it may not be there.


End file.
